


Payback

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Post-Sirius in Azkaban, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus gets revenge along with the best possible Christmas gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payback

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

If only his words hadn’t bypassed my brain and gone directly to my groin, I think distractedly to myself. I’d have thought of an excuse to send Harry off someplace and then I’d have hauled Sirius to his feet, tossed him across the table and ravished him. He’s mad, barking mad, talking like that in front of Harry. The boy’s already at that stage of teen hormonal overload. He doesn’t need his supposedly mature godfather painting warped pictures in his head behind the innocent guise of kitchen utensil instruction. ‘Harry, do you want to know about whisks?’ Indeed. 

Although, if I’m to be perfectly honest, Harry was probably amused by it all. Just like James would have been. Harry and Sirius were having a marvelous time, I’m sure. Especially Sirius. He knew full well what he was doing to me. He’s always been able to use the power of words to arouse me. Expressive, articulate Sirius, caressing me with words, the sounds forming with his breath and tongue and lips, flowing from his mouth to slip invisibly under my clothes and against my skin, like the trailing touch of fingers. Imp. Devil. Tempter. Siren. Sirius. Sirius, a silky susurration of seemingly simple sounds, slyly insinuating sex. What **is** it about the letter S?

The charming, old, claw-footed bathtub is lovely for good, long soaks, but I opt for the modern, rather extravagant shower. The wall of the shower has several carved-out seats, plus a hip-high ledge along one wall. We had two reasons for this design. One, after a transformation I sometimes want the type of water massage that can only come from a shower, but I’m too tired to stand up. Now, I can have my cake and eat it, too. Two, the ledge and seats come in handy during shower sex. As I said, I can have my cake and eat it, too. 

Strewing my clothes in a trail behind me, I try to ignore my semi-aroused cock. I adjust the shower spray to a needle-hard jet to take my mind off it. I set the temperature to a comfortable warmth and let the vigorous flow of water massage me. 

“Remus, it’s not like you to throw your clothes on the floor. Such a mess!” 

I crack open the shower door to see my black-haired tempter calmly picking up my garments. “What are you doing here?”

He cocks his head at me and says, “Harry’s off to see Ron. I thought I’d check to make sure I hadn’t done any real damage to you.” His smile turns promisingly naughty, and he says simply, “May I join you?”

Such an innocent phrase, but spoken in that honey-whisky tone that slides down my spine and tingles pleasurably straight into my cock. “Please do,” I reply, disappearing back under the water, shivering a bit with anticipation. He’s mine and I intend to make him remember that. 

Moments later he joins me, wonderfully naked. I pull him to me, my slippery, wet arms melting against the smooth, dry skin of his back. I kiss him, for the thousandth, millionth time in my life and still, he tastes and feels like heaven. My tongue seeks its mate, the tips brushing together in silent greeting, and then they coil and weave around each other. Our burgeoning erections slide together, trapped between our bodies and I feel them stiffen, hot wands of flesh.

I step back, drawing him with me, sharing the fall of warm water. I run one hand up his chest, his neck, his cheek, and sweep the rich, black hair back away from his face. He stares into my eyes while my hand strokes again and again through his locks, until they are saturated. His head is otter-sleek with water as he stands there like some other-worldly river god. He’s mine.

He knows how I want to take him, but he makes me do the work. He doesn’t move until I force him. I bump into him, nudging him back towards the ledge. His knowing hands are everywhere, inflaming my skin, flicking across my nipples, teasing my weeping cock, sliding down around me to grasp my buttocks. I hold on to his hips, insistently guiding him backwards until he is against the wall. 

“Up,” I command, propelling him onto the ledge. He uses his hands to assist me and spreads his long legs wide, inviting me closer. I ache for him, my erection strains to find the tight opening, the hidden guardian to the hot, silken channel. I want to plunge in to the hilt. I slather my fingers with shower gel, scenting the moist air around us with ginger and cedar. 

I pull my head back to look him in the eye. “What was that about a small, round hole?” I ask. He only smiles, as I slowly press one, two, three fingers into him. His head tilts back, as he sucks in a deep breath. He pulls me forward, his mouth fastens on mine and he kisses me deeply, as if I’m his oxygen, his energy, his lifeblood. 

My fingers wriggle inside him, massaging and manipulating. I whisper to him, “You’ll pay for teasing me.” His only answer is a hoarse, low hum from the back of his throat.

As I withdraw my fingers, he bends his knees sharply, and brings his heels up against his buttocks. The look in his eyes is pure lust as he presents himself to me. Oh, how he wants me…

The head of my cock presses eagerly against his hole. “The tip of the reamer does what? Grinds? Twists? Rubs?” I slide in a little further with each word. His hands urge me into him. He’s so beautifully hard to resist but I hold back, because he wants it, because I want to balance him on the knife-edge of anticipation. “I forget what you said, Siri… what should I do?”

“Ream me,” he says. And I do. With one long, deep stroke, I thrust into him, making him moan with pleasure as I fill him. I love that sound. I love that I’m the only one who makes him utter it and I’m the only one who hears it. It’s for me alone. 

I rock my hips in a steady, easy rhythm against him, not wanting to rush. I want to savor this moment, the same way I relish the taste and feel of his skin. My mouth fastens on his shoulder and I explore along bone and flesh up to his neck, sucking and nibbling and kissing my way to his jaw. His legs clamp tightly around me, the muscles of his thighs gripping me in a powerful embrace. We fuse together, our bodies moving to the same dance.

I reach down between us to fondle his cock, encircling it with my hand. So hard and hot in my hand, the heavy, familiar weight of it fits snugly in my grip. My hand pumps up and down its firm length, keeping to the rhythm our bodies have already established, bringing my lover further into the ancient sexual dance we share. He pants over my shoulder, every puffing exhalation tinged with the barest moan.

His body grips me like a vise, inside and out. The hot friction wrapped around my cock is indescribable. I’m moving faster, harder, wanting more. I’m addicted to him; a lifetime of sexual pleasure will not sate me. We strain against each other, no longer teasing. I’m on the verge of orgasm; I feel it building higher and higher like a tidal wave and then, oh, it breaks over me in a flood, my wail of pleasure heightened by the feel of his cock spasming in my hand, and the sweet pain of his teeth in my shoulder.

Our breathing slows. I slide out of him. He stands, somewhat unsteadily, and then moves to one of the shower seats, pulling me onto his lap. He notices that my fingers are slick with his come. He quirks an eyebrow at me. “I see you’re a bit sloppy, too. Good thing we’re in a shower.”

We snicker at each other and I playfully raise my hand to my lips in a race with the falling water to lick up as much of the precious fluid as I can before it is washed away. Then, replete and satisfied for now, I lean against him and we kiss for long, dreamy moments. 

At some point, we reach a silent agreement that it is time to get out of the shower before we turn irrevocably prune-ish. We each grab towels and start drying off when a thought occurs to me.

“Let me,” I say, taking the towel from his hands. He stands obediently still, while I run the thick terrycloth over him in a quick massage, thinking that someday maybe I’ll forgo the towel and instead, lick every bit of water off his body. Once he’s dry, I grab a second towel and quickly soak up some of the water from his hair.

“Don’t move,” I command, wrapping the towel around my waist as I leave him there to go into the bedroom. I’m back in a heartbeat, holding Sirius’ new bathrobe. I move behind him. He turns his head to watch me over his shoulder as I draw the sleeves up his arms and settle the beautiful silver garment around him. I come forward to face him, closing the robe and knotting the belt at his waist. Leaning in for a quick kiss, I send him into the bedroom. I pause just long enough to finish drying myself off. I whisper a quick charm to dry my hair, but I don’t bother spending the proper amount of time to do a complete job. I put on my own robe and go to rejoin Sirius.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, and he smiles at me, the sweet, gentle smile that makes my throat catch. In spite of everything that he’s suffered for so many long years, the clear, unsullied purity of that particular smile hasn’t changed. God, I love this man.

I sit behind him, trailing my hands up his back, delighting in the tactile kaleidoscope of his robe. I run my fingers through his hair, over and over, murmuring the drying spell as I banish the water from the skeins of black silk I hold in my hands. His head gradually tips forward at the same time that his body sinks slowly back to lean against me. 

I press my face into the midnight softness, smiling at his reactions. “This still turns you to jelly, doesn’t it?” I whisper.

“Mmmmm.” A purr of pure contentment is my only answer.

When I’ve finished drying his hair, I slide back against the headboard, gently tugging to bring him with me. I cradle his body against me, his head leaning on my shoulder. He turns to settle closer, his arms snaking comfortably around me. I rest my cheek against his hair, thinking.

A year ago, six months ago, he wouldn’t have been capable of verbally seducing me. His easy facility with words had atrophied, lost in the darkness of his prison cell. Oh, he was powerfully, wrenchingly fluent, when speaking about loss and pain and guilt and remorse. But his speech was halting; his words deserted him and he stuttered in frustration when trying to express feelings of love and desire and tenderness and need. Maybe Azkaban not only robs one of joy; maybe it also steals the words to describe it.

I decide to tease him a bit. “Proud of yourself, are you, for that little display in the kitchen?”

He snorts into my shoulder. “Oh, don’t give me that disapproving tone. You love it when I talk dirty to you.”

It’s true, and he knows it. Plus, he can do it about anything. He can make toe nail cuttings and ear wax sound tempting, if he puts his mind to it.

“Well, you may have been sending signals to me, but, you were speaking directly to Harry.” 

“Do you think Harry’s too oblivious or stupid to realize that I was really busy teasing you? Or do you think he has some burning desire to develop a proficiency with kitchen tools?”

“I simply think we should try to provide Harry with the guidance he needs at this time of his life.” I’m losing my ability to sound vaguely parental and disapproving. He knows that, too. 

“Then you’ll be pleased to hear that after you left the room in that undignified rush to the shower, I gave Harry some very sound guidance.”

I’m going to regret asking, I know it. But I ask anyway. “And that was…?”

Sirius straightens up to look me, well, seriously. “I told him he’d best be on his way to The Burrow, unless he wanted to listen to us fuck each other senseless.”

“Sirius!! You didn’t say that!!”

He flings his head back and bursts into peals of laughter. “Oh, Moony!” He howls uncontrollably, half-closed eyes dancing, his whole body shaking with the force of his mirth. “Your expression…It’s priceless!”

I find myself laughing with him. As our mutual hysteria subsides, I again gather him close to me and he willingly molds himself to my body, still chuckling. I think about the joyful sound of his laugh and it hits me. This is the first time I’ve heard him laugh since we reunited. That wonderful, jubilant, full-throated laugh that always brought a smile to my face when we were students. I haven’t heard it in so very many years.

I almost say something about it, but I stop myself. Does he realize? Maybe not. This was something else he lost in Azkaban. No, I won’t mention it now. I won’t bring the specter of that torture into our bedroom. Not now, not after we’ve just made love and joined together, bodies and hearts and souls, as we are meant to be. He’s healing, slowly but steadily. His laughter is the best Christmas gift I’ve received. I’ll tell him later….


End file.
